Marvelous Morsels
by MykEsprit
Summary: This is a collection of Marvel/Harry Potter crossovers—drabbles and short stories.
1. Table of Contents

**Marvelous Morsels**

A collection of Marvel/Harry Potter crossovers—drabbles and short stories. This collection is rated M to be on the safe side, but each story has its own rating.

 **Chapter 2:** Off the Clock (Pairing: Tony Stark/Pansy Parkinson, Genre: Humor)

 **Chapter 3:** Beta Launch (Pairing: Stephen Strange/Hermione Granger, Genre: Humor/Romance)

 **Chapter 4:** Father-effing-Christmas (Pairing: Loki/ Pansy, Genre: Romance/Humor

 **Chapter 5:** Click (Pairing: Ron Weasley/Natasha Romanoff, Genre: Angst/Romance)

 **Chapter 6:** I'll Get That Heart (Pairing: Luna Lovegood Rocket - Friendship, Genre: Dark Comedy)


	2. Off the Clock

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and the Marvel universe are not mine.

 **A/N:** This fic was written for DarkAngelOfSorrowReturns; thanks for a great prompt! And thank you once again to the awesome mods of Marvelously Magical Fanfiction for hosting this exchange!

 **Pairing: Tony Stark/Pansy Parkinson**

 **Genre: Humor**

 **Rated: T**

* * *

 **Off the Clock**

* * *

Iron Man always made an entrance—it was his _modus operandi_. Rocket boosters boomed and roared, heralding his arrival. The suit gleamed from frantic disco balls twirling under the high-domed ceiling.

A crowd swarmed when he landed. Their enthralled murmurs rumbled over the music. A shiny, red hand waved to the adoring masses, and a deafening cheer erupted. Everyone at the party was excited that Iron Man had arrived.

Everyone, that is…except for Tony Stark.

With an annoyed _tut_ , Tony elbowed through the mass of bodies. The suit faced him as he approached, its head tilted, conveying smug superiority and a hint of mischief. And since Tony himself was not in the suit, there was only one other man who could pull off that power pose.

"Loki." Tony tugged on his crisp, white sleeves; his diamond cuff links winked in the light as they peeked above the sleeves of his formal jacket. "When I said, 'come in a nice suit,' I meant in one of your own."

The golden faceplate whooshed up, revealing the God of Mischief's amused smirk. "Ah, but this _is_ a costume party," he said. "I wanted to dress up as a narcissist with daddy issues, but Thor already decided to come as himself." He nudged toward the entrance, where the God of Thunder was signing autographs. Loki rolled his eyes. "You were my second choice."

Tony folded his arms—mockery or no, the knowledge of being second at something always stung. "Don't scuff it. I just got the damn thing waxed." He turned to leave but paused when he remembered exactly who he was talking to. "And for fuck's sake, don't pick a fight with anyone," he warned. "No blasters. No lasers. You're not covered under my insurance."

He sauntered away, leaving Loki to his admirers, who only squealed with glee when they saw who was behind the mask. Loki pandered to the crowd, leaping to the air to perform acrobatics.

Tony raked his fingers through his hair, suppressing the urge to tug at the roots in exasperation. Although they were technically off the clock tonight, an intergalactic, interdimensional Halloween costume party hosted by the Grandmaster was _not_ the place to let one's guard down. He trusted the cosmic being about as far as he could throw. Considering the current planet he was on had about ten percent more gravity than Earth…well, Tony kept his eyes and ears peeled for trouble.

He had warned his fellow Avengers to do the same. As usual, they didn't listen.

Vision and Wanda made out on the dance floor, acting like a couple of horny teens on prom night. Tony was about to stop them when he remembered that both—in one way or another—never got to experience crazy teenage years. He let them be, deciding to intervene only if either lost any strategic articles of clothing in public.

Natasha sat at the bar downing a neon green drink. Although people were packed in that area, her general demeanor screamed, ' _Stay the hell away!_ ' and the crowd was more than willing to give her space. A three-foot buffer existed on all sides, and a stray high heel or pinky finger earned the intruder a withering glare from the professional assassin.

Tony searched the crowd, looking for the reason for Natasha's bad mood. There was no colossal silhouette among the crowd. He found no stuttering wallflowers in the perimeter of the room. Bruce Banner was MIA—again.

He really needed to put a tracking device on that guy.

With a defeated sigh, Tony trudged to a Black Widow-free bar and ordered the stiffest drink this side of the universe. Between Asgard's sons of anarchy and the Invisible Hulk, he needed something to stave off the impending tension headache.

A glass slid along the countertop in his direction. Before it reached him, manicured fingers wrapped around the tall, narrow glass and plucked it from the counter.

" _Excuse_ me." His gaze traced up a lean arm and settled on a pair of keen, dark eyes. Her red lips were too busy knocking back his drink to respond. "That was mine."

When the smoking clear liquid was gone, she slammed the glass on the counter. "Oh, gods," she muttered. "I really needed that. Don't worry, I'll get you another one." She held up two fingers to the amphibious bartender, who croaked in acknowledgment.

Tony scoffed. "I can pay for my own drinks."

"Sure you can." Two glasses skated across the smooth countertop; she stopped both in front of her. "In that case, these are both mine." In under five seconds, both glasses were emptied.

He whistled. "Either you're not a normal human,"—he glanced over her lithe form surreptitiously—"or you're having a worse night than I am."

"Both," she clipped. Again, she waved to the bartender.

"Halloween costume parties not your thing?" he asked. When the drink skimmed across the bar, he leaned over and caught it before the woman could grab it.

She sent him a blistering look. "No." She flipped her straight, black hair off her shoulder. "Especially not if it doubles as a bachelorette party." Her sharp gaze shifted to a clump of assorted characters on a couch several feet away. An attractive blonde wore a tiara and a sash that flashed 'Future Mrs. Ron Weasley' in a garish orange script. On her left was a bored-looking redhead in a leopard catsuit. On her right was a brunette, who conversed with a man wearing a smarmy grin and a rust-colored jacket.

"Yeah, you could say I'm a natural leader,"—the man's boasts could be heard above the din—"I could take over the Avengers if I really wanted, but they just want to stay on Terra." He winked at the brunette. "I'm more of a 'big picture' kind of guy."

"Goddamnit," Tony muttered.

His companion quirked an eyebrow. "Friend of yours?"

"No."

As Peter Quill continued to lay on his particular brand of charm, a blonde woman dressed like a furry duck hobbled by, her deep pockets jingling. His Iron Man suit floated in her path and landed in front of her.

"Trick or treat," Loki crooned. "I'm the trick. You're the treat."

Her clear, grey eyes grew wide. "I'm a niffler!" she replied.

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned.

"You know him?" the woman asked.

"Nope." He raised the glass to take a sip.

She hummed. "Shame." The woman turned, stepping so close that he could smell her warm bergamot perfume. Slowly, she pulled the glass from his lips. A coy smile formed on her lips. "I would have liked to meet Iron Man."

He leaned closer, the tips of their noses nearly touching. "Really?"

"Hmmm." With a mischievous glint in her eye, she pressed the glass on her fire-engine red lips and took a slow drink. "If you happen to see him again, let him know Pansy Parkinson would love to chat." Then, with his glass in hand, she turned to join her party.

Tony adjusted the knot of his black tie, which felt tighter than when he put it on earlier this evening. The woman—Pansy—didn't spare a glance back, but from the sashay of her hips, she knew that he was watching her walk away.

He looked around the ballroom. Wanda and Vision were still busy with each other on the dance floor; Natasha was gone, presumably off looking for Bruce. Thor was now taking selfies with his adoring fans.

Pansy lounged on the couch with her girlfriends. Peter and Loki were there as well—the two most troublesome Avengers.

A responsible leader would go over there to make sure they didn't cause any embarrassment. With a sly grin, he ordered two more drinks from the bartender and joined Pansy's group.

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks for reading! Reviews are appreciated!


	3. Beta Launch

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter and the MCEU do not belong to me.**

 **A/N: Written for MMF Bingo 2018. This fills in the G4 square. Thanks to the mods for running this event!**

 **Pairing: Stephen Strange/Hermione Granger**

 **Rating: T**

* * *

 **Beta Launch**

* * *

He crumpled the thick letter in his hand, the red sealing wax crumbling to the floor. As he strode into the expansive study, he threw the balled up parchment into the fireplace. The blaze ate away at the broad "M" printed boldly at the top, above the words "Department of Happy Hearth and Homes."

Stephen Strange was _livid_.

The audacity of the British Ministry of Magic—! To enact a marriage law, of all things, was ridiculous. To add him to their list of eligible bachelors was insane.

 _He's not even British!_

All the same, he had been surprised this morning when a tawny owl knocked on a window at the London Sanctum. They rarely received communications with the Wizarding world, so the arrival of an official owl was unusual.

Even more remarkable was that the letter was addressed to _him_. For all intents and purposes, Stephen Strange was a guest, staying on for the past two months while its Master was on a spiritual sabbatical.

And to be summoned to the Ministry to meet his Match…well. He flung his cape over his shoulders. "I'll tell them where they can shove their marriage law," he muttered as he poised his hands in front of him.

In a blink, a gateway sparked open. In the next breath, he stepped through to a narrow hallway inside the Ministry. Just ahead was a frosted glass door with the letters DHH freshly painted. He nudged the door open and stumbled back a step as a voice erupted from the room.

"—bloody hell were you thinking? A bloody marriage law? Honestly!"

Stephen pushed the door open. Inside the cozy office was a woman—quite an attractive one, as well, even with her face contorted with rage. Her curly hair frizzed around her head, giving her a most menacing look, which is probably why the other men in the room looked positively frightened.

" _Fix this_." She threw a parchment on the desk—one that looked similar to what Stephen received. Three sets of eyes widened as she glared at them in turn. "Fix this, or I swear to Merlin, I'll make Voldemort look like Mary Poppins, you—"

"Dr. Strange!" An imposing man—well, imposing had he not been cowering in the corner—greeted him with obvious relief.

"Minister Kingsley." Stephen nodded. "I wish I could say it's a pleasure to see you again, but..." His eyes slid to the brunette, who huffed and crossed her arms. "If this is a bad time—"

"No, no!" Kingsley ushered him into the room. "We were just in the middle of—erm—discussing—"

"Oh, don't mince words, Kings," the woman snapped. Her eyes focused on Stephen. "Are you here to protest this blasted marriage law, too?"

Despite the gravity of the situation, a smile tugged on his lips. "As a matter of fact, I am."

She nodded once. "Good." She waved her arm at the others in the room. "Help me, will you? These men need help getting their heads out of their arses."

Stephen's eyebrows inched up his forehead as he recognized the other occupants. Apparently, aside from the Minister of Magic, this brazen woman was also yelling at the formidable Harry Potter and his intimidating Auror partner Ron Weasley.

Harry gave him a tired smile. "Hullo."

Stephen glanced at him quizzically. "You're in charge of this?"

Harry's face turned fire engine red. "Well, it's in a beta launch right now. We only sent a few notifications out today to see how people would react. And, well..." He glanced briefly at the woman at the corner of his eye.

"It's a bloody stupid idea, Harry Potter." Her brown eyes narrowed. Harry Potter shrunk further down his seat.

"All right! It was a dumb idea." Harry looked to the two other men in the room, who nodded vigorously. "It's just...with our generation having such a hard time finding partners and all that—"

"Oh!" She planted her fists on her hips. "Oh, you think I have a 'hard time' finding someone? Think it's difficult for me to find a date, do you?" Her bright gaze trained on Stephen once again. "You,"—she pointed a finger at him—"Have dinner with me tonight."

Partly flabbergasted—and partly just intrigued by such a forward woman—Stephen said, "All right."

"Good." She marched to him, sticking her hand out. "I'm Hermione, by the way. Hemione Granger."

"Stephen Strange." He took her small hand and received a firm shake back.

"I know." Hermione strode out the door, yelling over her shoulder. "I'll owl you with my information this afternoon."

After she left, the men stared silently at each other.

"Well." Stephen cleared his throat. "I guess my work here is done." He opened a gateway back to the London Sanctum and left.

* * *

Three men trudged out of the small office. Ron waved his wand over the sign at the door and erased the letters "DHH."

With a sigh, Kingsley turned to them. "Success?" he asked wryly.

Harry gave him a sheepish smile. "Thanks for going along with this, Kings."

"Yeah," Ron said. "This is the last time we'll play matchmaker for Hermione. At least, not without writing a will!"

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for reading! Reviews are appreciated!**


	4. Father-effing-Christmas

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling.**

 **Written for Marvelously Magical Fanfiction's Enchanted Wonders 2018. Thanks for another fun event, admins!**

 **Pairing: Loki/Pansy**

 **Genre: Romance/Humor**

 **Rating: T**

ooOoo

He knows it is safe when the snoring begins. Pansy Parkinson, the bastion of elegance and glamour, sleeps like a Frost Giant with clogged sinuses. It is a problem she refuses to admit even when confronted with audio evidence.

This is fine with Loki—more than fine. In his thousand years in Asgard, he learned one important lesson: perfection cannot be trusted.

Beauty is but a mask. Gold blinds the eye to the grime of its surroundings. There are no realities in which truth and perfection can coexist.

Loki finds comfort in people's flaws. Pansy acknowledges many of hers—too impatient, too impetuous, and, sometimes, a tad too shouty—but she can never admit to snoring.

It's too fucking adorable; and tonight, particularly, it is extremely helpful. Assured that Pansy is in deep slumber, Loki slides out of bed, leaving an illusion of himself sleeping peacefully beside her. He sneaks out of the bedroom and pads down the grand staircase to the main parlor.

It is done up in shades of white—eggshell walls and marble flooring. A tasteful statue poses in the corner by the picture window. Stout furniture rest in a semicircle around a fireplace.

And, all around the room, there is not a hint that tonight is Christmas Eve.

He thought nothing of it, at first. Midgard has so many damn holidays, and he has no interest nor inclination to learn the ins-and-outs of all their celebrations. Earlier in the evening, though, Pansy had dragged him along to Malfoy Manor for a Christmas Eve ball. Her dark eyes lit up at the sight of all the trimmings. She ooohed and aahed at a giant tree in the middle of the room—of all places—its branches heavy with shiny baubles. He hardly noticed it all at the time, distracted as he was with how Pansy simply glowed.

He imagines that expression now as he goes about the parlor. She is his muse; and the memory of her delighted expression inspires him as he paces the perimeter. He waves his hands and flicks his wrists, shaping his illusions.

Loki concentrates so hard on his work that he doesn't notice the bearded man in the room until he bounces against his protruding belly. Startled, Loki leaps halfway across the room. His dagger—always on him, though often concealed—flies straight for the intruder's heart.

The bearded man waves a red-and-white striped stick and yells, "Protego!" The dagger misses its mark and embeds in the soft, cream-colored couch. The bearded man grumbles, "Bloody hell! What are you doing out of bed? I saw you sleeping next to the girl!"

Loki grips the handle of his other dagger. "Who are you,"—he points it at the man's rosy cheeks—"and how did you get in here?"

A clamor on the stairs turns their heads. Pansy enters the room, glancing between Loki and the man clad in a red suit. Her wand arm lies limply at her side and her face sports a rare, perplexed look. "What the hell?"

"Stay back, Pansy!" In a flash, Loki positions himself between her and the trespasser. "This pervert was watching us while were sleeping." He raises his dagger again. "Who are you, old man? State your purpose quickly, or your suit won't be the only shade of red you'll be wearing—"

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, Loki," Pansy hisses. "Lower your weapon. That's obviously—"

"Father-fucking-Christmas." The bearded man drops the bulky sack from his shoulder and crosses his arms. "And you better do as she says, young man."

"Young ma—young man?" Loki marches to him and presses the tip of the dagger just under his snowy white beard. "Do you have any idea who I am?"

"You are Loki Laufeyson. She,"—he points a chubby finger—"is Pansy Parkinson. And I am Father Christmas. Someone, I'm now gathering, you've never heard of." He mumbles under his breath in quite a menacing tone, "I'm going to have a word with the Allfather."

Pansy lays a hand on Loki's shoulder. "It's all right. Everything's fine. You can stop jutting your knife into Father Christmas' jugular now."

After a tense minute—and a short battle with himself to just cut the man anyway and let the chips fall where they may—Loki lowers his dagger and turns to Pansy. "Explain."

She does, succinctly. As she speaks, the bearded bastard strolls around the spacious parlor, muttering, "Everyone's wide awake, but not a biscuit in sight. Not even a drop of milk. Though what was I expecting…really…"

By the time he comes back around, Pansy is done talking, and Loki has had enough with being enlightened.

"So," Loki growls, "you come around every Christmas Eve to leave presents?"

"Oh, good," Father Christmas drawls. "You're finally caught up."

Loki huffs, shooting Pansy a sharp look. "I still don't like it."

Pansy shrugs. "I get a pair of pretty shoes every year from a nice, old man. What's not to like?" She squints at the object in Father Christmas' hand. "Though, honestly, I didn't realize you were a wizard. Or that you can use a peppermint stick as a wand."

"Of course, I'm a wizard! How else do you think I come through the chimney? I've got an international Floo pass!" Father Christmas waves the stick around. "And this is just a regular, old wand. I just decorate it on Christmas Eve to match my outfit."

"Oh!" Pansy nods, her eyebrows inching up her forehead. "Well done."

Loki sputters. "All right, old man. Do what you came here to do, and then get the hell out."

Father Christmas rolls his eyes. "Gladly." He bends down and fishes out two packages. He throws the larger box to Loki. "Here," he says, then adds in a low, grousing tone, "you ungrateful prick—"

Loki catches the box deftly, a surprised expression overriding his sneer. "I…get a present?"

"Of course, you do, my boy. You've been good this year, what with all the saving the world you've been doing lately. It pays to be a good guy."

"Right." Loki scoffs. "And all my selfless heroics have earned me,"—he rips the wrapping paper and tears open the box—"a pair of daggers?" He glances at Father Christmas.

"Not just any daggers. These are daggers only you can use. No one else will be able to take them out of their scabbards. No one." Father Christmas winks. "Not. Even. Thor."

A broad smile tugs on Loki's lips as he stares at the daggers in the box. "Like having two Mjolnirs," he whispers.

"Yep!" Father Christmas' eyes twinkle.

"Ooh! Me next!" Pansy claps her hands eagerly. "What did I get this year? Is it the new Manolo Blahniks I've been eyeing?"

Silently, Father Christmas hands her a small box. Pansy tears it open; her face crumples when she holds the content up to her face.

"Coal?" She shoots him a wounded look. "Why the hell did I get coal? I'd hardly made fun of Granger's hair this year!"

Father Christmas lifts his wide shoulders. "You're the one who decided to shack up with the God of Mischief. I mean, really, Pansy."

She stamps her Manolo Blahnik-less foot on the white marble. "But—he—"

"There are consequences to your actions," Father Christmas lectures as he meanders to the fireplace. "All the deities in all the realms…the God of Mischief, really." He throws a handful of Floo powder in the fire and steps inside. "I hear Thor's single again—or, are you too good for Jane Foster's sloppy seconds?"

With a final, irritated scoff, Father Christmas Floo's away.

Loki wraps an arm around Pansy and plants a kiss at her temple. Then, he taps her foot with his. In a blink, her feet are cradled in three-inch heels from Manolo Blahnik's fall collection.

"Thank you," she murmurs as she peers at him from under her lashes.

"Don't thank me." He nips her earlobe lightly. "I did it for purely selfish reasons. You look dead sexy in those shoes."

Pansy chuckles as she throws an arm over his shoulder. "It's not just for the shoes." She gestures around the room at the holiday decorations. "Thank you for all of this, too." Holding the piece of coal between them, she teases, "You're totally worth getting a piece of coal every year."

Loki plucks the coal from her grasp. Briefly, he squeezes it in his fist; when he unfurls his fingers, a large diamond pendant has taken its place. "Better?" He dangles the pendant on a delicate silver chain.

Pansy turns around, moving her long, dark hair to one shoulder as she smirks. "I knew I picked the right brother."

ooOoo

A/N: Thanks for reading! Reviews are appreciated.

 **Special Announcement: Claiming has begun for** **Riddikulus Fest 2019! This is a Harry Potter comedy fest. If you love reading humor fics, make sure to follow riddikulusfest. tumblr. com (remove the spaces after the periods). If you're a writer, come and join us for this fun-filled fest!**


	5. Click

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling.**

 **A/N: Written for Enchanted Wonders, hosted by Hermione's Haven. Thank you to the mods of this event!**

 **This is set in the same universe as "Recovery Team," which is in the _S'more Drabbles_ collection. (I know, I'm sorry, I had to put these stories in separate locations.) You don't need to read the other one to totally get what's going on in this one.**

 **Pairing: Ron Weasley/Natasha Romanoff**

 **Rating: T**

 **Genres: Angst/Romance**

ooOoo

 _Click._

 _Click._

 _Click._

"I think your lighter's dead." The voice can't be described as feminine; for the word brings to mind softness and warmth, like a freshly laundered blanket on a cold, dark night. Rather, that voice is the winter air—piercing. Severe.

Intimidating—if one is the sort that gets easily cowed. But Ron Weasley has seen far too much in his life to be daunted by anyone.

Even someone like Natasha Romanoff.

"It's not a lighter," he mumbles. "Not really." In the corner of his eye, she moves towards him. He slides along the fallen tree trunk to make room for her.

"Sure looks like one to me." She perches beside him, glancing at the cylindrical object in his hand. "Why are you trying to light a campfire so late? Everyone's already asleep." She nudges her chin to the shadowed lumps scattered in the small clearing.

Draco Malfoy sleeps fitfully near the base of a tree, his hair bleached white in the moonlight. Several feet away, Steve Rogers wraps a bulky arm over Pansy Parkinson's form as they both slumber. There are a handful of others around them, tucked into their thin sleeping bags, some lightly snoring.

No one thought to assign a guard; they didn't need it. No one would dare attack a group of witches and wizards. Especially with the Avengers in their midst.

What was left of them.

"It's not a campfire," he says under his breath.

Her sharp ears pick it up, anyway. "Forgive me," she replies, stretching her legs out and crossing them at the ankles. "So what are you doing with this not-a-lighter while you sit in front of this not-a-campfire?"

Ron gazes at the log he had laid over the ashes of that night's fire. "It's…" He shakes his head. "You wouldn't understand."

For a moment, they sit in silence, nothing but the soft rustle of wind through bare branches filling the night. Then, Nat stands up stiffly, her expression flat and unyielding like a cement wall.

She marches three steps away before he says, "It's a Yule log."

Nat halts.

"It's something my family,"—his voice breaks at the word—"does every Christmas. Light the Yule log." His eyes flick up to Nat, who peers at him over her shoulder with hooded eyes.

"And you think I wouldn't understand because I don't have a family?" Her green eyes flash.

"Not at all." With a deep sigh, Ron gets to his feet and takes a tentative step towards her. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking about what I said. It's just that…" He glances at the object in his hand; the corners of his lips turn downward. "One Christmas—a long time ago—my friends needed me. We were on a quest like this one. To defeat the bad guy. To save lives." Embarrassment and regret tinge his face red. "I had abandoned them. Left because…" He huffs a mirthless laugh. "A lot of reasons. Reasons that don't matter anymore. But I left them when they needed me the most, and I'd never forgiven myself for it."

With her arms crossed over her chest, Nat closes the gap between them. Her face is as blank as a canvass, and its lack of judgment gives Ron the courage to continue.

"One night, I heard them. Well, mostly Hermione." A hesitant smile tugs on his lips. Nat arches an eyebrow, and Ron raises his hands up. "Not like that!" His blush deepens. "Well, a little bit like that. But, obviously, before…" Briefly, his eyes flutter to Draco's sleeping form. "Anyway, that was a long time ago." He hands Nat the Deluminator and slides his empty hands in his pockets. "One night, I heard her voice loud and clear. Like she was standing right next to me. Calling to me. Coming out of _that._ "

She turns the object in her hand, studying it.

"And then when I clicked it—" Ron whispers, as though speaking of a miracle from the gods. Which was how it felt, at that point. The lowest point in his life, when he loathed himself for his jealousy and cowardice. "It brought me to her. To both of them." He hangs his head and stares at the barren ground. "I guess I just—I thought maybe—"

"You thought maybe it would work again." She cradles the Deluminator in her palm and lifts it to the level of her eyes. "That it would bring you to them."

He nods once.

She offers the Deluminator back to him. "They're gone," she says. "Not even dead. They just don't exist anymore." Despite her words, her tone is gentle; full of understanding.

Because she _does_ understand, he realizes, as he takes in their small number in the clearing. She knows what it's like to be flanked by trusted comrades. To live and work side by side with people—so close that it feels like they're extensions of himself. And how their absence leaves a space around him so suffocating that he can't breathe.

She understands, because he sees the emptiness surrounding her, too.

"Here." She reaches out her arm, the Deluminator in her upturned palm. Her green eyes are shuttered and forlorn.

It reminds him of another pair of green eyes on a similar winter night. His heart squeezes at the memory of his best friend.

"Keep it." He closes her fingers around the Deluminator and gives her a lopsided smile. "Maybe it just needs a recharge. You never know—maybe, one day, it will work for you."

A glimmer of hope lights up in her eyes.

* * *

The explosions stopped minutes ago. At least, she thinks they did; it is hard to hear with the ringing in her ears. The moonless night makes it difficult to see anything—especially with the blanket of smoke covering the area, heavy with the smell of burnt metal and flesh.

Nat pulls herself up to her knees. Going in, she knew it was a suicide mission. But they were desperate, their numbers dwindling with each passing day.

They needed this mission to succeed. They needed this win.

And, as she unfurls her fingers, the green Time Stone flashing in her palm, she knows this is going to _finally_ give them the upper hand.

Now, her only problem is to get the hell off this planet and go home.

The silence is listless—like something is searching for her in the dark, waiting for her to make a move. Nat freezes in place while her mind races.

Out of the dark, a voice calls out. " _Nat_."

Her breath hitches. She knows that voice. Ron.

" _Nat_."

The Deluminator, hanging from a thin chain on her neck, grows warm. She pulls it out and stares at it wide-eyed.

" _Nat_." A whisper; an invocation.

With unsteady fingers, she flips the lid open. "Ron. I'm coming home." She takes a deep breath and squeezes her eyes shut.

 _Click_.

ooOoo

 **A/N: Thanks for reading! Reviews are appreciated!**

 **Pairing: Natasha/Ron**

 **Enchanted Item/Spell: Time Stone**

 **Word Prompt: Yule Log**


	6. I’ll Get That Heart

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or the MCEU.**

 **A/N: Written for I Love You to Death, hosted by Marvelously Magical Fanfiction. A prompt by CrimsonKat—thank you!**

 **Pairing: Luna Lovegood Rocket - Friendship**

 **Rating: M**

* * *

 **I'll Get That Heart**

For something that had countless poems and stories and songs dedicated to it, an actual heart was quite underwhelming. It was small enough for her to hold in a dainty hand, her fingers digging into the sides of its chambers. Blood dripped out of the remnants of the aorta, as red as the bouquet of roses in his arms when he walked through the door.

Flowers he had bought from the market on the way back from his mistress' flat.

She squeezed the lump of lifeless muscle in her hand. It gave a wet _squelch_. A red rivulet slid down her wrist, and a fat droplet fell onto the gaping chest on the floor.

Neville's eyes stared blankly at the ceiling.

"Hmm." Luna raised his heart to the level of her blue-grey eyes. "What to do with you now."

* * *

"I am Groot."

"Of course we're going the right way."

"I am Groot."

A low-pitched growl echoed down the narrow street. " _No,_ I don't know the way 'cause of my _animal instincts._ I'm using a fuckin' map. You know, you've turned into such an asshole since your last growth spurt."

"I am Groot."

The voices grew louder as she turned into Knockturn Alley. Luna wandered down the uneven cobblestone path, trying to make out anyone in the shadows.

"I really need to tell Quill to do a better job parenting," said a short figure ambling towards her. "Maybe give you a curfew and a bedtime. Bet that'll fix your bad attitude."

His lanky companion angled his head up to the dark sky. "I am _Groot,_ " he said in a mocking tone.

The one with the pointy ears snapped back, "Go ahead, then! See if any of these magical weirdos'll take your sorry ass in, you ungrateful—"

Luna stepped out of the shadow of Cobb and Webb's storefront, catching the eye of the oncoming strangers.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," muttered the furry one, jutting a short arm out to stop his friend. "What the hell?"

Luna gave him a wide smile. "Hello."

The raccoon stepped towards her. "Why, hello," he said carefully, eyeing her blood-crusted hands with a suspicious glint. "Hey, lady, you, uh…need any help?"

Luna tilted her head. "Oh! Are you handing them out?"

"Oh, brother," the short one murmured.

"I am Groot," replied the tree-creature in a hushed tone.

With a sigh, the short one approached her. "Come on, lady. Let's get you somewhere a little _less_ welcoming towards shady shitheads like me and to a place more..." —he shrugged—"welcoming towards shitheads like me. Guess there ain't much choice of venue around here." He began to walk in the opposite direction, beckoning her to follow. "We know the place. The name's Rocket, by the way. This whiny blockhead over here is Groot. He decided to be an asshole today, so if he says anything offensive, don't take it personal-like."

* * *

Located at the junction between Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley, The Hero's Lodge was equal parts whimsical and seedy. Patrons dotted the bar, some nursing their drinks alone. Others socialized in groups or pairs, although few seemed less approachable than others.

"Please?" a figure in a red suit asked a stone-faced man. "Oh, please-please-please-pretty- _please_? I'll show you mine if you show me yours." He teased the edge of his red-and-black mask, showing a strip of scarred skin.

"Motherfucker, _no_ ," replied the man with an irritated grunt. "You _cannot_ look under my eye patch!"

On the other side of the bar, Rocket hopped on a barstool and motioned for Luna to do the same. "As you can see, the clientele here is hit-and-miss."

"I am Groot."

Rocket rubbed his eyelids. "Yeah, I know we fall under the 'miss' category. Jeez." He turned his sharp gaze at Luna. "So, what's your deal? What's with the, uh—" He gestured lazily at her arms, dry blood sticking to her skin like evening gloves.

She covered one hand with another. "This is Neville."

"Nev-ille." Rocket worked the syllables slowly. "What, is that like a ritual thing that goes on around here? Sorry, we don't come to the magical world often. Is this part of the whole robe and pointy hat getup?" He signaled to the bartender, who quickly slid three bottles of beer to them.

Luna shook her head. "Oh, no. Neville is my boyfriend." She winced. " _Was_. Until I killed him and pulled out his heart."

Rocket spat out his drink.

Groot's jaw dropped. "I am Groot."

" _Er,"_ Rocket stuttered, "why would a nice broad like you do something like that?"

Her eyes fluttered to the scratched bar top. "I got tired of not having his heart." She shrugged. "So I took it."

Rocket nodded his wide head slowly. "Ooooookay." He shared a knowing look with his companion. "So. You killed him. Took his heart. What did you do with it?" His face twisted into a disgusted grimace. "You didn't...eat it, did you?"

Beside him, Groot shuddered.

"Oh, no! I destroyed the body, but his heart,"—Luna fished a Pygmy Puff-sized object from her pocket—"I kept as a souvenir." She held the object in her open hand.

Rocket and Groot gaped at the brilliant stone in her palm.

"What," Rocket whispered, "the fuck . You magics people have red diamonds for hearts?!"

Luna giggled. "Of course not! I just didn't want to carry around a goopy heart. I turned it into a red diamond. It will make a nice pendant, don't you think?"

Rocket swallowed. "And then some."

"Anyway,"—she placed the stone on the counter—"there it is. My former lover's heart into a pretty rock. At first, I thought I was going to feel terrible about it, but then I made this stunning diamond. Now I'm tempted to make more. It would be a nice collection." She smiled sadly. "And a large one. I've had my heart broken by many unfaithful lovers."

Rocket stared at the red diamond, not blinking for a full minute.

"I am Groot."

"Yeah," Rocket said in awe. "That'll rake in a lot. Ain't ever seen a red diamond like that . And to think—" He glanced at Luna, clearing his throat. "Say, you wanna have a collection of these. How's about you let us help you."

Luna blinked. "I don't know…"

"Listen, lady." Rocket leaned forward in his seat. "I'd say we'll be doing the world at large a favor here. The less cheatin' bastards in this universe, the better. Now me and Groot here, we're what you might call 'vigilantians.'"

Her eyebrows inched up her forehead.

"It means we get rid of bad guys and general assholes-at-large. Including them cheatin' bastards." He ran a nail down the side of the red diamond. "Now if we get a small compensation for our services, well..."

"Would you even be able to?" A smile tugged on her lips. "One of my exes is hard to kill."

Rocket smirked back. "Oh, I'll get that heart," he promised.

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for reading! Reviews are appreciated!**


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